


Like a Warrior in Battle

by Masterofceremonies



Series: All The Ways [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Diary/Journal, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Outdoor Sex, POV Second Person, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterofceremonies/pseuds/Masterofceremonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is keeping a journal because he cannot confess his sins to anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Warrior in Battle

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't quite "explicit" despite being a sex scene. It doesn't specifically name any parts, but it's pretty clear what's happening. 
> 
> I basically approached this by thinking "how can I describe, in detail, Athelstan getting fucked by Floki without actually swearing" so enjoy.

_The first time you sin, or rather, the first time you commit this particular sin, is a day like any other. A day you would have forgotten quickly had it not occurred. Had he not finally made up his mind on how to treat you. On what to do to you._

_You are a slave in hostile lands. Despite Ragnar treating you well, you are afraid. He could beat you to death at any time with no consequences. The only consequence others would earn from killing you would be to pay Ragnar for destroying his property. As if your life's worth can be measured in metal disks._

_You are a Christian among pagans, and despite having seen countless horrors since being kidnapped from your monastery; your faith is wavering, stuttering like a candle in the wind. God seems so far from this place while other gods, older gods, are wrought into every surface as clearly as blood on snow._

_But you try not to think of that, instead focusing on your chores, focusing on not invoking anyone’s wrath. It seems to work, because Ragnar feels confident enough in your loyalty to leave you alone more often than not. He calls on other slaves and servants much more often than you, and with your newfound spare time, your attention turns to other things._

_You spend your time outside, when the weather does not prevent your wanderings, and as your confidence grows, you wander farther and farther away from town. The stares you get grate on your nerves. It's draining to feel hostility wherever you go. There is more peace to be found in the company of trees rather than people._

_Solitude has a downside, however. You take pains to not get lost, staying on well-worn paths and making sure to note landmarks so you could find your way back. But this means your movements are predictable._

_To this day you do not know whether it was accident, fate, or his own malicious will that spurred it all. Part of you thinks it was coincidence, that the odds of you meeting someone on the path into town was high regardless, and seeing as he lives outside of Kattegat, it makes sense that he’d be the one to run into you._

_Part of you thinks it was divine intervention. That God was testing you, or the devil was punishing you, or maybe Loki simply grew bored and decided to toy with your sanity. It would make sense that your paths crossed like this because of some larger plan._

_A part of you, a small part, but a loud one, believes he planned it. That he saw you day after day slipping into the woods, that he watched you and planned his movements carefully before choosing the right time and place to take what he wanted._

_But you cannot be sure._

_All you can know for certain is what occurred. You normally do not stray from the visible path, but on this day you are contemplating the rocky cliff that juts out from the forrest floor, like a giant had decided to stack boulders for fun. It is not far off the path, and you want to see what the view is like at the top. One moment you are lost in thought, the next you staring at a leather clad chest, reflexively freezing before you crash into the man who seemingly appears out of thin air. Your eyes travel up to hesitantly meet his, but you do not speak. His sudden appearance is enough to jar you into remaining silent, an instinctual and irrational part of your brain assuming that if you are very still and very quiet, he might not see you. He does not speak either, but sees the slight panic in your eyes and giggles, the same noise that people have died while hearing, the same noise that burst from his throat after your brother monk’s body was hurled into the ocean._

_The part of your brain that recalls that instance thinks you should run. A rational part tells you to simply walk around him and continue on. A younger part tries to argue that hiding is the best course of action. Before you can make up your mind in the slightest, he takes another step, but not directly forward, as if moving around you. Out of reflex, and self-preservation, you pivot, stepping off the path to try and keep him in your line of sight._

_Maybe if you hadn’t done that he wouldn’t have reacted the way he did. Maybe would have simply moved past you into town, but you acted like a scared rabbit cornered by a wolf and forced his hand._

_It doesn’t matter, really. All that matters is the way his eyes darken at your panicked movement, taking in every tense line of your body, the way you twitchingly refuse to look away. He smiles and it seems like early winter snow found its way under your skin because your blood turns to ice at the sight._

_As he steps closer once more, the only thought in your mind is how tall he is. The angles have changed, your retreat bringing you further off the path until your back meets rough stone and you realize you're pinned against the base of the cliff, boxed in by his arms on either side of you. He pauses, glancing up in thought, but you cannot bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his face to follow his gaze. Looking back down, he locks eyes with you once more, moving his hands to wrap around your upper arms. You inhale sharply at his touch, not expecting how tight his grip would be. You are used to seeing those who look more like bears than men, and compared to other warriors, his wiry stature looks almost fragile, but you were wrong to underestimate his strength. His hands are callused, fingers long and skillful, not delicate in the slightest despite their tapered appearance. You realize that he is a craftsman by trade, and a warrior by choice. Years of work and battle would have turned them into weapons in their own right._

_Something flickers in his eyes, something like regret, something like longing, but whatever tenderness he feels is extinguished in the space of a heartbeat, and nothing but predatory hunger remains. You part your lips in an attempt to say something, but he silences you quite effectively with his own. You feel yourself surge against him, like waves breaking through castle gates, your body betraying you, crashing against him with too much eagerness to be brushed aside, explained, or ignored._

_He laughs, without breaking the kiss, and you can feel the ocean inside of you pounding against your skin, making your eyes itch as saltwater begins to spill down your face in an effort to drown the man who’s so large, so harsh against you. But he is not stone, not earth, not anything tangible, and the crushing power of the tides do not scare him._

_He is fire, hot and all consuming, and his hands slip in between the fabric of your clothes and your skin, damp with the waves it holds back, to press against your hips, your thighs, and then… more._

_Every part of you his hands brush dry up from his heat, the flames he conjures with mere touch enough to reduce the churning whirlpool in your gut to insubstantial steam. It feels so good to be rid of that tug, that ever present sense that you’re simply treading water as creatures of the deep try to coax you under the waves._

_He drags the flat of his tongue across your cheeks, tasting the bits of dried salt from where the ocean had dripped down your face. It does not seem to surprise nor upset him. He simply lets out a pleased hum, and you realize that a man who's life revolves around ships would understand carrying the sea inside of you. He knows the ocean in you will return, you can see that in his eyes, but you also see determination. He cups your face to tell you that he will not let you drown._

_The unspoken promise drains any remaining scraps of resistance from you, tension fading from your muscles as you relax ever so slightly against him. He seems to take this as permission to continue, but in all honesty, you’re not sure if he was interested in your consent at all. A nasty voice inside of you is convinced he would have taken what he wanted even if you had struggled and screamed and begged for him to stop._

_But it does not matter as his hands never stop moving, erasing dark thoughts and possibilities. His fire seeps into you, charming it’s way through your skin to your heart and lighting a spark there, just enough kindling having amassed from the shipwrecks of your morals to light a flame. Small, but steady, and as your lips part in a gasp, smoke trails out of your mouth like a signal to the gods. He presses his lips back to your own to trap it, not wanting to let the smoke climb to Valhalla. Not wanting to let the gods know of this tryst. Not yet. Not when the fire is young, and new._

_You are grateful for this act, as fruitless as it is, because despite the fact that the god who's wrath you are afraid of incurring is not one that can be hidden from, a man named after the trickster god might just be able to shroud your sins from His gaze._

_The cold scrape of stone meets your skin as your clothes are pushed and shoved aside, exposing more of yourself to him, to be touched, examined, devoured. But he does not take his time, he does not savor the planes and angles of your body like he will do later, when there’s time, when his own need is not too harshly confined by his own coverings._

_Even as your breath falters in the realization that you can feel the evidence of his desire pressing all too closely into your thigh, your own arousal is freed, the cool, open air a shocking contrast to it's heat. You have to shut your eyes to try and avoid turning red with shame, fear someone will see you like this, knowledge that you want it as badly as he does even though you feel like a weak rabbit being torn apart by a rabid wolf._

_But he doesn’t let you stay blind, he doesn’t let you control your reactions and avoid your shame. His roughened touch changing from aimless exploration to focused pressing, making your eyes fly open along with your mouth. He grins victoriously as more and more smoke spills out of your throat from the ever growing flame that’s taken root under your skin, the pain from his ministrations a single drop of water on the now sweltering blaze, fizzing out quickly as it is consumed eagerly by pleasure._

_And he’s not patient, and you don’t want him to be, you can hear your own voice, the emotions in it so foreign, as you beg for more, clinging to the stake as you are burned alive, instead of tied to it like a sacrifice, or a martyr._

_His hands pull away, touching and stroking once more, flitting around your body like he can’t decide where he wants to hold you. But you can’t focus on that, you can’t focus on anything, because he has pushed forward, nestling in your body as his heat and yours link together at long last. The noise he makes is animalistic, or something altogether unearthly, like a raven whetting it’s beak on a stone, or the wind blowing through withered tree branches during a storm._

_But you cannot make noise, there is no room inside you for air, the fire has consumed your lungs, your stomach, your skin, it licks at your face and brain, promising to devour you, or is that his voice you hear, brittle and crackling, whispering like smoke and roaring like flames. You can’t tell. You can’t think. You can’t even see, although your eyes are open._

_This is surely what death feels like._

_But before you can begin lament the loss of the world, chapped lips find your own, breathing air and life and pleasure and desire inside of you, and you come hurtling back into your body, the fire receding, concentrating into a fixed point, just as scalding, but contained. You kiss back, discovering that you have arms, and legs, things that can touch and grab and pull, so you do._

_He is holding you up, and you know that the boulder will rub your skin raw, you know you’ll be unable to lay on your back for days to come, but you ignore it, wrapping your legs around his waist as if that could prevent him from leaving you, or ever stopping this symphony of blissful torment that you had never known before._

_You want to hold him closely with every fiber of your being, but all you can manage is a weak clutching of his tunic, grasping at his face, his shoulders, his arms, then trying to steady yourself by scrabbling against the rock behind you before going back to the desperate and darting exploration of his body._

_He is muttering to himself, but you can’t hear what he's saying over your own ragged cries, noises spilling from you that you didn’t know existed. They seem to spur him on, so you make no attempt to muffle yourself, and when your eyes lock with his as you grit out his name, you can see the possessive joy he is feeling at making you moan and scream and whimper._

_As tempting as it is to stay like this forever, it was never meant to last, and you barely manage to gasp out a warning as all the boiling energy inside of you suddenly peaks, frothing over as your body spasms, unable to hold yourself back. Shame rushes through you, quick and cold, and your veins are back to ice as reality crashes down like a heavenly storm, sent to punish you with the guilt and knowledge of your deeds._

_You hate him for all the pleasure he's brought you and all the pain he's brought others. You hate Ragnar for bringing you here and choosing you as his slave when he should have let you die. You hate the gods because they exist, you hate your God because he doesn't, you hate yourself for enjoying this sin, and you hate your body for wanting more. Most of all, you hate the fact that this is the first time you have ever felt this way in your entire life, and you hate everyone who tried to tell you that going to Hell was a painful and horrific thing instead of the addictively satisfying act it really was._

_That thought alone causes you to reflexively struggle, pushing back against him once more, but his hand wraps around your throat, forcing you to remain still as a conciliatory sound escapes your lips. He is still in the throws of pleasure, and you watch in rapt fascination as his face shifts through a million ranges of thought and feeling before he growls something that sounds almost like your name, not the title he usually calls you, but your real name, and that alone douses the guilt entirely._

_Even as you feel him inside you, flames quenched by the same wet heat that stains your skin and clothes, shame does not return. He keeps you pinned to the boulder for a moment longer before drawing back, and you have to redress yourself quickly so as not to linger on the feeling of cooling droplets on your stomach._

_You don’t feel as if you can meet his eye, but he doesn’t leave, merely watches as you gather yourself, trying to look presentable, having already hidden the signs of his own involvement. Eventually you can delay no more. You need to go back into town to take care of the trickling warmth escaping you, tend to your wounds, of which you’re sure there are many, and likely burn your clothes in order to fully destroy the evidence that has already seeped into them._

_He is going the same way, and after you meet his gaze for a flickering second, he pivots on his heel and stalks off, half glancing back to make sure you follow._

_The lack of confrontation and taunting confuses you, but it’s comforting as well. You need time to think without the teasing lilt of his voice muddling up your head any more than it already has._

_You trail after him, and he shortens his stride in order to let you catch up and keep pace, a gesture entirely out of character for him. You say nothing about it, choosing to walking back in silence all the way Ragnar's home. No one sees you, something you're grateful for, and you part before entering the main hall, in an unspoken agreement to keep this between the two of you. You head towards your room, planning to bathe as well as you can with the small basin of water there instead of the ocean where you risk someone seeing the marks on your skin._

_Before you slip away, you look back at him one more time, as if to make sure he still exists. He has edged close to the fire, where he prefers to be so that he can watch the fire._

_But his eyes are not fixed on the dancing flames as they normally are. Instead, he watches you. As your eyes meet across the length of the room of, he nods. It is short, and sharp, and his face is blank, neither smirking derisively, frowning angrily, or smiling consolingly. Just... staring._

_You nod back._

_It is not clear to you exactly what this means. Or why it is so comforting. You do not know why he nodded, or why you did so in return. You do not know why finding bruises shaped like his fingerprints littering your body after you disrobe makes you smile. You do not know why every jolt of pain you feel from sore muscles and raw skin sends a thrill down your spine. But you know exactly why you start to take a different route on your walks every day. One that takes you much closer to a house nestled in the woods, far from prying eyes._


End file.
